‘Preferably both,’ she added.

‘Well, let’s see where this gets me.’ I threw half of it down my throat.

‘Mrs Cawson,’ began Charles. ‘If you would like –’

‘Good girl,’ Lorelei interrupted. I felt like my throat was on fire. ‘We’ll make a flapper of you yet.’

‘What’s that perfume?’ I asked.

‘This?’ She held out her wrist. ‘Tabac Blond. By Caron. Do you like it?’

‘Yes.’

‘Based on sweet Virginia tobacco, of all things. Hard to get now. Order Nick to get you a bottle. Place in Bristol does it – he knows which one. Now, Nicholas, I want to spend some time with you tonight, but I must go over there and sweet-talk the Ruskies, since they’re our masters now. Cheerio, Jane. We’ll compare notes later. I’ve got some tips for controlling Nick. I got them from a wild-animal keeper at the zoo.’

My throat was still raw from the brandy and I had to struggle to pronounce more than a crackle. ‘I’ll look forward to it.’ That was true. I felt intimidated by this force of nature but also drawn to her. Some people are like that, aren’t they? You just can’t help yourself around them. ‘Goodbye,’ I said, waving my empty glass.

Nick focused his attention back on me. ‘This is Comrade Honeysette. He’s in the Ministry of Food.’

‘I’m very pleased to meet you,’ Honeysette said, shaking my hand. He had a quick, rattling manner of speech.

Charles looked across the room and spoke. ‘Comrade Honeysette is a friend of Comrade Fellowman.’

‘Known him since Oxford. Solid man. Very committed. Came over in ’47.’ So when scores of people were being thrown into Brixton Prison for attempting to escape from our side to theirs, Ian Fellowman was one of the handful who had made the journey in the other direction. I had seen and heard men like him interviewed on the radio and television, speaking about the corruption and hunger in the DUK that they were leaving behind, but I had never seen one in the flesh. I was quite intrigued. I felt another pain in my abdomen but managed not to let it show.

At that moment, a murmur went through the room and heads turned as, in the corner, a small train of guards and assistants strode forth. In the midst was someone familiar to me from the pages of the Morning Star: Guy Burgess. He was tall, medium build, with a rectangular face, and in his wake followed a clutch of eager apparatchiks, like seagulls chasing a trawler.